


Sherlock Holmes and the Great Feces Fiasco

by potentiallyAWKWARD



Series: Johnlock One Shots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack Fic, blame the group chat, poop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiallyAWKWARD/pseuds/potentiallyAWKWARD
Summary: When John Watson moved into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was very aware that he needed to make changes to his lifestyle. Quickly. All of the changes were annoyances, yes, but nothing that Sherlock would lose any proverbial sleep over. None except one.





	Sherlock Holmes and the Great Feces Fiasco

When John Watson moved into 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was very aware that he needed to make changes to his lifestyle. Quickly.

 

He could no longer leave body parts out in the open or store them in anything used in either food preparation or consumption. His assorted drug paraphernalia which he kept for strictly medicinal and/or scientific purposes had to be meticulously hidden from his new flatmate. He could no longer walk around the flat completely starkers (while John was home, anyway.) All these changes were annoyances, yes, but nothing that Sherlock would lose any proverbial sleep over. None except one.

 

_Recent Searches:_

_how to not poop_

_how to poop secretly_

_how to train your body for a poop schedule_

_how to make poop smell better_

_best air fresheners for bathrooms_

 

The first six months went surprisingly well. John never knew when Sherlock had last defecated or that he even pooped at all. (John was under the false impression that Sherlock was some sort of super-human who could control all bodily functions at will, which was only _slightly_ untrue.) The combined efforts of a slightly altered diet, carefully timed bowel movements, and the best air fresheners that money could buy all worked very nicely to keep John Watson in the dark about his bowel movements.

 

Until they didn’t.

 

Looking back, there was nothing Sherlock could have done to avoid it. In any case, his little game would not have lasted forever. But the detective didn’t expect it to be so _embarrassing_ —even years later, long after the fourteenth of August, 2010, there mere _thought_ of the event is enough to make Sherlock Holmes’ cheeks go a mottled sort of reddish-pink. John, however, loves the story and takes every chance he has to tell it. Although it has been slightly embellished over the years, his version goes something like this:

_It just so happened that on this particular day, a fuse blew at the surgery and they sent us all home early. There I was, climbing the stairs, minding my own business, when I hear the loudest bloody fart I have ever heard in my life--_

 

(By now Sherlock is scowling and wishes he could sink into the groud.)

_\--I mean, it was a bloody trumpet, I’m telling you. I don’t know how enough pressure had built up in him for him to make that kind of sound. I was a bit startled, I can tell you._

_Anyway, I ignore it and go to the kitchen and start to make myself a sandwich. Just then, Sherlock rips another one. It wasn’t quite as loud, but it was long and had a lot of vibrato to it. It was impressive, I think the floor rattled a bit. Honestly, if he could train his arse to do that on command, he could make good money._

_So ten minutes go by, I’m sitting in my chair reading over the newspaper, and Sherlock comes barging out of the bathroom like a man on fire. He flies around the kitchen like a tornado for a minute before he goes completely quiet._

_He’s standing in there silently for so long that I turn to see what he’s doing, and he’s staring at me like I’m a bloody ghost or something, clutching the kitchen table like he’s about to faint. I’d never seen him so horrified by anything._

_“What?” I say, thinking I’ve grown a second nose or something awful._

_“When did you get home?” Sherlock whispers, still clinging to the table for dear life._

_“I got home maybe fifteen minutes ago,” I tell him, still not sure why he’s acting like this._

_“And did you hear-?” he asks me, and it’s then that I realize that Sherlock Holmes is_ mortified _by the fact that I heard him pass gas._

_And I feel bad about it now, but I laughed at him and told him that I had. The poor bloke gets so flustered that he storms to his bedroom, and I could hear him banging about in there for maybe twenty minutes before I decide to use the loo._

_It smelled like someone had_ died _in there—_

 

And this is where Sherlock gets all huffy, so eager to contradict his flatmate that he stumbles over his own words— “John is—he’s making that up! I didn’t— the bathroom did not _smell._ ”

 

And John just laughs and rolls his eyes and continues,

_Okay, so it didn’t really smell too bad, but I could definitely tell Sherlock had just shat in there. That’s when I realized I had never known Sherlock to poop, and there have only been a few times since then that he has let his guard down enough for me to get a whiff of his shite._

 

Sherlock sighs, face still uncomfortably hot, but mostly just feeling relieved that John has finished his story.

 

Then John nudges his flatmate playfully, smiling conspiratorially at whomever was forced to hear this story. “But he has to put up with smelling my shit every day since I don’t bother hiding it because I’m not a posh git who pretends he doesn’t even fart.”

 

And despite himself, Sherlock smiles ruefully at that.


End file.
